


Ultraviolet

by skargasm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skargasm/pseuds/skargasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike is called to Oxnard to claim something his Grand-sire gave to him with nasty results for Xander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unclaimed Property

“Thought of you as soon as we realised who he was. Heard tell your Grand-sire turned traitor, messed up a few of your plans.”

“You did, did you?” Spike looked around without interest. He didn't particularly want to be here but he'd received a message through the demon underground that some of his property had turned up and curiosity got the better of him. 

“Yeah, he got himself into a bit of a bother up top—his car died, couldn't afford the repairs. Accidentally sold himself into slavery at the Gentleman's Club. We get quite a few of our lot from Oxnard but not like this one. Can sense the Hellmouth all over him.”

“What did you say his name was? Not quite remembering to tell the truth. Don't recall claiming anything on the Hellmouth but I know how it works. You can't move him on til I renounce my claim right?”

“Yeah, that's the long and short of it. Got someone lined up for him—getting a bit impatient all told.”

“You've not touched him though?” He might not remember claiming anybody but that didn't mean anyone else could play with his toys. He didn't share—not unless he absolutely had to. And was then forced into it.

“No, hell no. Practically held him in a gilded cage, safe as a protected lil' bbirdy could be. Thing is though—”

“What?” 

“While he's been here, he's got himself a bit strung out.” Sinclair's voice got a lot lower at that point, obviously not happy to have to admit such a thing.

“On what?”

“Look, we didn't know he was full human. None of the lads meant him any harm. Let him try that bloody 'ultraviolet' didn't they? They get a mild buzz from it, didn't see any issue. But he's different—body chemistry didn't take to it the same or something.” Sinclair looked honestly discomfited—Spike knew he was one of the few honest demons around—hence alerting him instead of selling on whoever this was—so he wasn't inclined to kill him. 

Yet.

“Like loopy. Makes him very docile and susceptible to suggestion. Caught one client trying to persuade him to bend over. When the boy first got here summat like that would have made him lash out for sure, but he was almost ready to do it.”

“You said no one had touched him!”

“They haven't! I stopped it. But it's getting bloody difficult—the boy's a demon magnet.”

“How susceptible to suggestion?”

“See for yourself.”

Following Sinclair through to the main bar, Spike racked his brains to try to think of anyone he could have inadvertently claimed. The whole situation in Sunnydale had pissed him off so much that once Drusilla was back on her feet, he had left her in Rio and trawled around on his own. He'd had just about enough of the whole “Daddy” bullshit—he wasn't hanging around to be anyone's second choice. 

At the bar, Sinclair poured him a glass of O'Neg and he took an appreciative sip. Sinclair and his club beneath the Gentleman's Club in Oxnard was well known for both his honesty and his ability to broker almost any deal a demon could want. If he had someone champing at the bit to buy this lad from the Hellmouth, there was almost guaranteed to be a decent chunk of change in it for Spike. This boy had to be something special indeed.

“That's him.” Sinclair gestured across the room to the small dance-floor and Spike didn't need him to point out which boy he meant—it was completely bloody obvious from one look and Spike remembered in a flash just where he had seen the boy before. 

Bloody Sunnydale High School. His Grand-sire offering to share him, the scent of anger, arousal and fear permeating the air. He hadn't got the chance to taste his blood before he discovered what a duplicitous bastard Angel was, but he clearly remembered Angel offering him the boy and Spike managing barely a swipe of his tongue across the vulnerable nape before it all went to hell. And in the way of demons, the boy had been offered and accepted. Well, well.

The music blaring out was “This is War” by 30 Seconds to Mars and his boy was currently bouncing around the dance-floor with three or four other demons that could pass for humans. He was an enticing sight, dark curls flopping over his eyes as he bounced up and down, a carefree grin on his face when he wasn't shouting out the lyrics. He wasn't exceptionally graceful but he was so full of vitality he drew the eye and it was only on careful inspection that you could see the signs of Ultraviolet at work. His dark looking eyes were unfocused; his movements were a little jangly, like a puppet that had lost some of it's strings; he was sweating profusely—more than the heat of the room and his exertions alone could explain. The three demons around him were sweating and buzzed but nowhere near as high as he obviously was. And most interesting, the boy wasn't objecting to how touchy-feely the other lads were being. As they bounced and gyrated around, hands were wandering over bodies: caressing chests and backs, occasionally slipping down to denim covered arses. Every now and then, the boy would surface a little from the haze but there always seemed to be someone there offering a puff on what looked to be an innocuous joint which was obviously laced with ultraviolet. Before he could fight free of the influence he was sucking down another lungful whether by taking a toke himself or second-hand as his friends grouped around him. 

“You want him.” Spike realised Sinclair wasn't asking him a question but he nodded nevertheless, taking a long drink from his glass.

“What does he think is going on? Lives on the Hellmouth, works with the Slayer—can't see him not asking questions.” He didn't remember the boy being particularly stupid, especially by Hellmouth standards. As soon as it became clear that Spike wasn't falling for the Angel as Angelus ruse, the boy had fallen to the side, scrambled to his feet and made a run for it, not stood around to be collateral damage. 

“He helps tend bar upstairs, washes dishes. Thinks he's paying off the bill for his car.” 

“Good enough.” He looked back at the boy for a moment before giving Sinclair his full attention. “So what's it gonna take?”

“To claim him and take him you mean?” Sinclair tilted his head, obviously doing some mental calculations. “Owe for the car, get him out of the slavery contract legitimately so no one's chasing you, recoup my losses on the sale not going through...”

“Skip the details and just tell me.” 

“You know what makes my place special, right?”

“I know you feed a large percentage of the Eros demons in the vicinity if that's what you mean.”

“Here's how it works. Put on a show and claim him right here, right now, we'll call it quits.” Spike took the time to roll and light a cigarette, considering what Sinclair said for any pitfalls. He had to admit he couldn't see any, and he could appreciate what Sinclair was doing—the boy was Spike's property but Sinclair kept his reputation for honesty whilst still making something on returning the boy. Very clever. 

“Thought you liked the kid.” It was the closest he would get to warning Sinclair that what he had in mind wasn't a nice, gentle fuck. He was looking at the boy and seeing property as well as an opportunity to say up yours to Angelus. When news got back to him—and it would because demons were such fucking gossips—he would know that his little acting job had set this all in motion. He had made a gift of a member of his pack/clan to his Grand-childe which made it all shipshape and legal-like in demon terms. Spike would give a lot to see how Angel handled the little blonde slayer when he had to tell her he'd given one of her little humans away into slavery to a fuckin' vampire. Bloody priceless.

“I like him well enough. But he's been here for nearly a month, inadvertently driving people insane with the whole innocent tease thing—I'm not the only one who'd like to see him take it and take it hard. Got a thing for tears myself—love to see them cry.” And right there was why Sinclair was such a success at what he did—honest, forthright but under all that still a full-blooded demon. 

“Fair enough—will have to see if I can make him cry for you. Can't say I've ever really performed in front of an audience but I don't think I'm going to suffer any performance anxiety. And even better if it means that this lot learn he's owned good and proper.” Adjusting the growing bulge in his jeans, Spike looked around, a quick check to see if there was anyone or thing that he should worry about once he got going. “You got stuff, get it all set up? And you might need to make sure he's properly docile before I start unless you want to see your place busted up before I even get started.”

“Yeah, no worries there, I'll get the lads to take him out to back-room while we get it all set up. We'll set a chalice of ultraviolet up to keep it constantly in the air, make sure you have a joint or two nearby. Do you want chains and stuff?”

“No thanks mate—I like restraining them myself, feeling them fight. Hardly fair and no fun if they can't fight back.” And a much better way of letting anyone watching know that Spike was strong enough to keep anything he owned if he subdued it without the need for chains—his reputation was well earned but he wasn't above adding to it.

“Each to their own Master Spike.” With a smile on his face, Spike watched as Sinclair called over one of the 'lads' that had been dancing with the boy and gave him instructions. This was so not what he had been expecting when he drove into Oxnard but he couldn't say he was disappointed. A virgin fuck, a new toy and a fuck-you to Drusilla and Angel at the same time—a definite win.


	2. Not His Friends

Following Cris through to the bathroom, Xander swiped at the hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He needed a cold drink of water in the worst way, followed by a nice long piss. His throat was dry and his skin was itchy—it had been ever since Sinclair had walked into the bar with the blond in the leather duster. In the back of his mind, Xander knew that he recognised who he was; knew how dangerous he was. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to care. He shook his head when Cris offered him another drag on the joint they had been sharing, suddenly feeling the need to be clear-headed although maybe it was too late for that.

Cris smiled good-naturedly and Xander smiled back before heading towards the nearest urinal. He sighed as he emptied his bladder then zipped up and went to wash his hands. As he rinsed off the soap, Danny and Pieter came in, pushing up close and surrounding him.

“Hey guys. I need a drink of water—I am seriously parched.” They were smiling at him but for the first time he noticed their teeth—jagged, gleaming white, very sharp. He shook his head again, wondering if it was the lighting, panicked in the back of his mind that it was not. He turned to go, needing air suddenly but they didn't move out of his way, instead pushing closer. “What the—“ He choked as Cris appeared as if from nowhere, exhaling a huge cloud of vapour into his face. “HEY!!”

Still choking and coughing, he tried to protest further but Danny was pushing in really close all of a sudden, one hand flat on Xander's chest, the other holding yet another joint. Where had that come from? Xander tried to jerk sideways, realising too late that he was penned in by Pieter who blew a waft of smoke into his face as he looked that way. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe—what the hell had come over these guys? More smoke and they were pressed in against him at all sides—everywhere he turned someone was blowing smoke at him whilst hands were travelling up and down his body: his back, his chest, his ass, his thighs—way more persistent than they had ever been before, invading his personal space without compunction. 

He choked and coughed again, the smoke suddenly easing into his lungs and he could feel himself getting hazy. Why was he fighting with the guys again? They had been great from the time his car hiccuped to a halt, helping him push it to a garage, bringing him to the Gentleman's Club where he got a job washing dishes and tending bar to help pay for repairs. They'd even sorted out somewhere for him to sleep—it might only be a small room where previously he was pretty sure janitorial supplies had been held—but it was a room nevertheless. 

He stumbled as he realised that somehow they were walking back into the main bar area, shocked when the cool air made his nipples pebble. Where had his shirt gone? There were hands at his waistband, messing with his jeans but he couldn't coordinate his body to stop them; he was being pushed inexorably forward into the bar and he noted absently that the layout of the room had been changed slightly while they had been in the bathroom. The lights on the dance-floor had dimmed, and a bed-stand, mattress and pillows had been placed smack bang in the middle. It was set like a stage, with all of the tables in the bar given a clear view. It was strange as hell and he didn't want anything to do with it, but Cris, Danny and Pieter were shoving him in that direction. He hit the ground as his jeans tangled around his legs, bashing his knees and barely saving his face by putting his hands out. More hands grabbing at him, taking his sneakers and socks, dragging off his jeans and he knew he was dreaming, that there was no other explanation for this. He was naked in a bar full of guys, being lifted to his feet and carried the rest of the way towards the bed and his nightmares about appearing naked in class had never been like this. This came with the sounds of people jeering and talking about him, with the smells from the bar, cigarette and alcohol. 

Beside the bed-stand was a table and he could see an ashtray with two blunts in it alongside a burner. A slow curl of smoke was wisping from the burner and he recognised the aroma although he couldn't say why. Cris, Pieter and Danny threw him onto the bed, smiling at him as they walked away and he was smiling back when he knew he should be leaping to his feet and running like hell. This didn't make sense—none of it made sense, but the bed was comfy as he lay there and none of the guys at the various tables were making a move to get anywhere near him so what was to be scared of? 

_For God's sake, run._ The voice in his head was loud and he tried to shake off the fogginess in his head enough to listen to it—it had saved his life more times than he cared to consider since Buffy came to Sunnydale, he wasn't going to ignore it now. 

“Hello luv, remember me?” 

“I—“

“Well let me make it simple for you shall I? I'm your only hope of getting out of here in one piece because this lot? They **all** want a piece of your arse. Hear you've been shaking it around for a month now—how many of them do you reckon think you're a bit of a prick tease?!” The blond was smirking at him and not in a nice way and Xander shifted up the bed, curling up to try to hide himself from the gaze that was looking over him so possessively. 

“I'm not a prick tease!” 

“No, mayhap not deliberately. And not sure a lot of these 'uns have got what you and I would call a prick, but they'd sure as hell find a way to take you.” As he watched, the blond exhaled a stream of smoke before crushing out the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray. He couldn't think why he hadn't leapt off the bed and made a run for the door but he seemed glued in place. “But see, Pet, I don't share my toys so I'm going to show this lot who you belong to.” He was still trying to understand that whole statement when the blond casually yanked at the buttons at his fly and pulled out his cock before climbing onto the bed and on top of Xander.

“What the—get off me!” His hands refused to do what he asked of them, his arms feeling as limp as noodles but nevertheless, he tried to push the blond from on top of him. 

“Now is that any way to talk to someone who's just doing his bit to protect you from the nasty demons that want a try at your arse? Tsk, tsk, luv, you could at least pretend to be grateful. And the name is Spike.” Easily grabbing both of Xander's arms and slamming them down onto the bed, Spike knee walked up the bed and shoved his cock into Xander's face. Xander turned his head away, mouth tightly pursed while he tried to see if there was _anyone_ there he knew who would save him from this deranged monster. 

He could see his boss, Sinclair, stood at the bar drinking; he could see Cris, Danny and Pieter sat at various tables, staring avidly; the other patrons in the bar seemed to be settling down to 'enjoy' the show and he realised he couldn't expect help from any of them. He was on his own. Still tossing his head from side to side to avoid Spike's advances, Xander tried to buck under the blond man's weight but to no avail. He had no leverage and his body felt as uncooperative as his arms—he couldn't understand where his strength had gone. He felt panicked, realising that if he didn't do something soon, this man fully intended to make Xander suck his cock and maybe worse. He balled his hands into fists, trying to push up from the mattress but Spike was crazy strong and Xander's brain finally provided him with some information that should have been obvious long before now—he wasn't human. 

Holy crap, Xander was stuck on a bed beneath a half-naked demon that seemed to think he had some sort of claim to Xander—there was no one out there missing him, and no one in here who looked inclined to save him. What the hell was he going to do? Still struggling, he felt Spike shift sideways reaching for something, the whole time seeming to easily ride Xander's writhing form. He was back before Xander could take advantage of him being off-balance, leaning over, covering Xander's nose and mouth and blowing out smoke. He did it again, and again until Xander choked, swallowed and suddenly the worry was less, the fear was distant, it was all happening to someone else. And this time when Spike shoved his dick at his mouth, Xander opened wide and took it in.


	3. Time to make him cry...

Fuckin' hell but the boy was beautiful in his suffering. Beginning a slow rhythm, Spike fucked in and out of his boy's mouth, relishing the wet warmth, the scrape of teeth, the muffled sounds. Keeping his balance with ease, he lazily thrust his hips back and forth, looking down so that he had a clear view.

The hazel eyes were closed now, forehead creased as the boy struggled to do what was expected, no **demanded** of him. It was delicious—every now and then Spike could see a real personality struggling to get past the influence of the drugs; no compliant one—he seemed determined to fight every step of the way. If it wasn't for the roomful of demons that he didn't know or trust, Spike would have forgone the ultraviolet altogether and let the boy fight. He couldn't afford to do that here—there were at least three demons who would gladly stake him to take his place atop the boy—Sinclair hadn't been wrong when he described him a demon magnet.

Which reminded him that he had told Sinclair he would make the boy shed tears—he would need to get on with that, as a thank you. He liked to keep his word and he wouldn't mind seeing how the boy looked with real tears in those beautiful eyes. Spike so loved to see true pain—his Grand-sire had taught him well.

Making no allowances for his boy's obvious lack of experience and the difficulty he was having keeping up with the almost slow and gentle rhythm that Spike and instigated, he rammed hard, shoving his dick in deep while the boy struggled to adopt to the sudden change. Spike shuffled slightly to adjust his stance and enable him to pump harder, then reached down with both hands to hold his boy's face. With a tight grip on dark, dark brown strands of hair, he began to fuck his boy's mouth in earnest, enjoying the sensation of his balls slapping against the boy's chin as he pushed and shoved until he could feel he was hitting the back of the boy's mouth with every thrust. Changing angle again, he pushed a little harder, groaning as the head of his cock slipped down into the boy's throat. Fuck, but this felt amazing—if the boy was this talented on a little ultraviolet, Spike could only imagine how amazing he would be with a little training. It was a very arousing thought.

Pulling back he moved lithely off the bed and flipped the boy over, shoving his face into the mattress and holding it there until the boy took the warning and kept still. He kicked the strong thighs apart, easily capturing the boy's flailing arms, folding them roughly at his back and pressing down. With deft fingers, he flipped the lid on the tube of lube that Sinclair had thoughtfully provided and squeezed a liberal amount onto his hand. It was difficult one-handed but not impossible and he liked the position he had forced the boy into—he didn't want to manhandle him back into it.

Dropping the lube within reach on the mattress, he slid his hands between the rounded, clenched cheeks of the boy's arse, slicking the furrow so that it was nicely slippery. Crouching slightly, hand forcing the boys arms painfully into his back. Spike slid his dick into the tunnel formed by the boy's arse cheeks pressing together. Back and forth he slid on a film of lube and sweat, enjoying the muffled cries emanating from the boy almost as much as the tightness caressing his dick.

He admired the fact that the boy was still struggling even as he nudged the head of his dick at the vulnerable hole. He liked how it felt, pushing against it, feeling the tiny pucker clench and flex as he rubbed against it with the sensitive head of his dick. A quick squeeze on the tube of lube and he slicked his cock a little more before rubbing his fingers over the wrinkled looking hole. His actions seemed to galvanise the boy into action and he began thrashing around in spite of the hold Spike had on his arms, yelling obscenities that were muffled by the mattress. A heavy handed slap and he could quite clearly see the outline of his fingers—another point in the boy's favour just how beautifully he marked up. Spike was liking him more and more.

“Let's see if we can give Sinclair those tears he was after.”

* * *

The pain was so bad his brain whited out. With one vicious thrust of his hips, Spike rammed his way into Xander's body, ripping past the guardian ring of muscles with total disinterest. He knew he screamed, knew he was trying to crawl away from the source of the pain as his arms were released and he clawed at the sheets but he got nowhere. Regardless of his struggles, he could feel the solid weight of Spike's hip bones pressed against his ass, couldn't seem to dislodge the huge width pressed so deep inside him. He had no idea how much time had passed—he only knew the pain didn't seem to be fading, rather spreading throughout his body in cold/hot waves.

“Fuckin' hell, luv, you are so damned tight! I can tell I'm going to want to spend a lot of time right where I am now.” He couldn't seem to formulate words, muffled moans the only thing he could articulate as he buried his face in the pillow, fighting not to share his tears with the avid audience. At least half of them he had thought were, if not actual friends, at the very least _friendly_ or not wishing him harm, but their responses to the whole shameful thing made him realise how wrong he was. Baying for his suffering, shouting suggestions at Spike, scrabbling for a clear view—they were clearly no friends of his. He should have paid more attention when he heard Cris talking to Danny about a 'gilded cage' – he realised now they had simply been marking time until Spike came, pretending to be his friends so that he didn't realise that he was trapped awaiting his passage to hell. “You calmed down a bit now? Sssh Pet, stop whimpering. Come on, I know how you're feeling—been right where you are. Ol' Spike's gonna make it all better now, you'll see.”

He wanted to laugh at the idea that Spike could do anything to make this feel better but knew any utterance would either turn into a torrent of abuse that would no doubt see him punished or degenerate into hysterics which he would not succumb to. The pain from biting into his lip seemed like nothing compared to the bright, sharp pain inside where Spike was buried so deep, and his fingers were cramping on the sheets but he couldn't bring himself to let go. He was afraid, afraid that any movement at all would sharpen the pain even more and he locked his muscles, determined not to move. He felt Spike shift to the side and he gasped as the movement affected his position in Xander's body, setting off another wave of pain. He couldn't take this, couldn't stand it—the scream was building in his head and was pushing to escape no matter what. He tried to tuck his head further down, push his forehead into the mattress but a cry escaped him when Spike pulled his hair, yanking his head up and back so that his spine was painfully curved. “Take a toke.” He recognised the blunt joint but tried to pull his face away, screaming out as the grip on his hair tightened. “Take a toke. Now.” Shuddering all over, Xander admitted defeat, turning his head slightly and accepting the joint between his trembling lips. The heat of the thin paper felt like it was burning his lips and he could taste the hot copper tang of his own blood. He inhaled deeply, coughing as the smoke went up his nose but Spike didn't move the joint away, holding it firmly in place until Xander took another inhale. And another. And another.

He barely noticed the joint being pulled away because he wasn't in his body any more. He was looking down at the tall, broad shouldered but still kinda gangly body held down on the mattress by the blond creature dressed in black. He could see the strain on the thighs due to their spread-eagled position, read the pain and discomfort in the unnatural curve the spine was being forced into by the supernatural strength of the hand gripping dark curls. He could even see how pale the fingers were from their tight grip on the sheets. He refused to even look at the obscene stretch of his ass cheeks, the contrast between the paler tan on his ass and the black denim pressing so close. Much less see the painful look of his ass-hole, forced wide open by the pale white cock that was incongruously large on the lean frame. He didn't need to see that—he refused to see any of that.

“Few more puffs and we'll give them the rest of their show shall we?” The remainder of the joint pressing on his lips brought him back to his body momentarily before the now familiar disassociation began to take over. He'd never smoked this much before so couldn't compare it to anything, couldn't tell if what he was feeling was normal. Floating again, he watched Spike toss the smouldering butt far away from the bed and rumpled streets before the pale hands came to rest on his hips. “Good boy. Gonna make you feel good now—gonna make it hurt so good.”

Even in his drugged haze, he gave a disbelieving laugh at that—there was no way Spike could make _this_ feel good. This was nothing like what he had allowed himself to imagine a few times after a good night at the Gentleman's Club dancing with his—with _them_. This wasn't exciting and different and sexy. This was a still unbearably painful fullness in his ass, a pained stretch of his hip and thighs; this was a silent scream. There was no way Spike could make _this_ feel good.

He was so wrong.


	4. Grand Finale

As Spike finally, finally pulled out, he grazed against something inside that made every muscle in Xander's body spasm. It was a bolt of lightning from inside that made him jerk up from where he had slumped into the mattress. It messed with the pain of Spike's withdrawal, made it a confused tangle of too fierce pleasure and pain. Before he could figure out what it was and how to respond, Spike was shoving his way inside again. But this time, he pulled Xander back by his grip on his hips; this time he shifted his angle somehow so that the entire, interminable entry was painful but felt good because solid hard flesh was pressing against that place inside. Out again and there was the jolt; in and the long, constant press. Maddening, confusing, muddling pain and pleasure. Harsh fingers digging into his hips, yanking him back to meet the solid thrusts, the fat weight of Spike's cock spearing his insides so painful still yet not. The glide was smoother and he didn't want to think that it might be his blood that was acting as lubrication; the fingers and hands were kneading and stroking instead of digging in and he didn't want to admit to himself that it felt good. It was only then that he heard the noises, the rhythmic grunts as Spike hit bottom, the moans as he slid his length out again. 

His head was hanging down but no longer to hide his tears—now he couldn't seem to co-ordinate his body enough to lift his head; his hands were clenched in the sheets but not in pain—or rather, not _just_ in pain now. Still hazy, still disconnected but feeling enough to know that in spite of himself this felt good—not in any way he could ever have expected, not in any way he would ever have imagined—but good. It hurt but the pain was part of it—the too much, too big feel of Spike ramming himself into Xander's body; the nails scratching at his hips; the heavy denim changing the sounds of their bodies meeting from a slap-slap to more of a muted thud-thud. All with a soundtrack of cries and groans that he knew were coming from him, a stream of consciousness consisting of 'no, no—oh fuck, yes there—oh God, oh—fuck” that went on and on.

Then it stopped and Spike was pulling out completely and Xander barely stopped himself from screaming a protest. He was being flipped over onto his back and dragged down the mattress until his ass was hanging off the edge and Spike was standing between his legs, pressing his thighs apart. Fresh humiliation as he realised he was hard, his cock pressing against his stomach in stubborn arousal, leaking his excitement for the whole room to see. He covered his face with his hands, not wanting to see anyone, especially not wanting to look into the face of the evil demon forcing these reactions out of him. He should have known Spike wouldn't let him get away with that.

“Look at me—move your hands and look at me.” He gasped when his hands were yanked away from his face and he found himself staring up into Spike's eyes. Blue but glinting gold, more than a hint of the demon revealing itself. Spike stood up straight and Xander forced himself to look. 

Black tee-shirt still in place, barely rumpled. Black jeans undone and hanging from his hips. Through the open vee of material, he could see honey blonde curls surrounding the rigid length of Spike's cock which was pointing at him, it's weight too heavy to allow it to be upright. It was clearly stained with blood—his blood—and he wanted to scream, to fight, to hurt Spike the way he had been hurt. But beneath it all, the drug continued it's work on his body and he wanted it—he wanted to feel that thing spearing it's way into him, sliding over that place that felt so good in a spine jolting way, wanted to be filled, taken as only Spike had ever done. There was no way to stop the tears from spilling from his eyes, sliding down the side of his face to land in his hair and onto the mattress. He wanted this.

“Who am I Pet?” 

“What?” His voice sounded rough to his ears and he felt so confused. Had being away from Sunnydale for a month changed him _this_ much?

“Who am I?”

“You're Spike.” The slap to his face made his ears ring and he tasted fresh blood in his mouth. Motherfucker.

“Who am I?” Spike's voice was firmer although not louder. The quiet tone was more menacing and scarier than any time when Tony Harris had screamed at him. What was he meant to say? “Tell the nice pack of demons watching who I am. To you.” He almost repeated his previous answer with the addition of an expletive or two, but the confusion was messing up his thoughts even more than the drugs. He held his tongue, hoping against hope that Spike might give him a damn clue. “Say it and I'll finish what I started.”

“I—I—“ A word came to mind, clear as a bell but he wasn't sure he could bring himself to use it—not in connection with Spike, not after what he had done. Xander felt more exposed, more vulnerable than ever and oh so lost. His eyes flicked to Spike's groin, momentarily hypnotised by the movement of Spike's hand as he casually stroked his cock, squeezing the head in a brutal grip that made Xander wince, rubbing up and down. Using Xander's blood to ease the pat of his hand as he casually jacked himself off between Xander's legs. It was obscene and disgusting and shamefully arousing. 

“Who. Am. I?” The voice was thunderous and Xander jumped, petrified and aroused, unable to prevent himself blurting out the one word blasting trough his head.

“MASTER!” NO! No, no, no fucking way was Spike his master—just no!

“Good boy, Pet.” An evil smile crossed Spike's face as one hand slid up Xander's leg, moving from his knee to his inner thigh. He lifted his other hand and spat into the palm, reaching once more for his own cock and rubbing the spittle in with an up and down motion. “Let's finish this shall we?” Both hands pressing Xander's thighs apart as he stepped forward. Two fingers dug into Xander's ass-hole, spreading wide and stretching him whilst with the other hand Spike aimed the thick meaty head of his cock at Xander's entrance.

Xander barely had time to brace himself before, with the now painfully familiar thrust of his hips, Spike shoved himself into Xander's body. Hands raised to push him away were grabbed and slammed into the mattress, the cruel grip holding him down as Spike began to fuck him with long, sharp digs. Every entrance felt like Spike was forcing himself deeper and deeper into Xander's body, hips shuttling back and forth as he rammed himself in over and over again. There was nothing Xander could do to avoid the gold/blue gaze, staring into his eyes pitilessly as Spike forced pleasure and pain onto him, into him. 

Spike was grunting every time his body slammed into Xander, the grip of his fingers on Xander's wrists painfully tight. And in spite of it all, Xander could feel himself responding: his cock was so hard it felt like the skin would split; his balls drawing up against his body; the rhythmic thumps against his prostate sending bolts of lighting up and down his spine. His brain was screaming at him that this was sick and wrong and nasty, but all he could feel was the pleasure/pain forcing him higher and higher, pushing and shoving him towards orgasm. 

“Come. Now.” It felt like Spike had stabbed himself so deeply into Xander's body that he was nudging his heart, the harsh instruction reverberating through Xander's skull until his brain translated it and his body responded. Through the white-hot explosion, Xander could feel Spike inside him, hard and deep; could feel individual fingers holding his wrists in a tight grip; could feel those gold eyes staring down at him, avidly taking in every atom of his response. But nothing else existed—not the cries and cheers from the crowd, not the part of his brain screaming at him—none of it.

Panting for breath, he lay there, unable to do anything but accept the jack-rabbit movements of Spike's hips; the painful chafing of denim against his inner thighs; the numbness spreading from his fingers. He barely managed to open his eyes as Spike suddenly pulled himself out of Xander's body and with five, ten strokes of his hand splattered his come all over Xander's chest, belly and thighs. The roar of approval from the crowd was the last thing he heard as he passed out.

* * *

“Good enough?” 

“Hell, more than!! Got a few people wondering if you'll stick around, do it again.” 

“Don't think so—got a hankering to get the boy into some proper training. I think he could be an interesting pet to keep, for a while at least.”

“Well, thank you. I can't say I was expecting anything _that_ impressive but you more than satisfied the details of our deal.”

“Thanks for calling me—appreciate it and won't forget it.” They shook hands, leaning back against the bar and looking around the room where things were getting back to normal. Sucking deeply on his cigarette, Spike watched with satisfaction as the three demon lads half dragged, half carried his boy to the back of the place where a crate was waiting. Checking the time, he was pleased to see he would be able to leave straight away—he was feeling rather energised and wanted to get his new toy somewhere he could relax and play just that little bit harder. He wanted to know what the boy's blood tasted like and he had a new camcorder he wanted to play with. Technology was a wonderful thing—vampires could be picked up by certain recorders now and he was considering making a little video, maybe sending it to his Grand-sire with a thank you note. Or better yet, he could send it to that nosy bastard librarian who was working with the Slayer—that way, it was guaranteed to cause Angel all kinds of trouble.

Finishing his cigarette, he patted the pockets of his duster for his keys, suddenly eager to be on the road—then he remembered he had given them to Cris so that they could load his boy into his car and smiled again. It was good to be a respected Master Vampire. There was just one more thing he needed from Sinclair before he went on his way.

“Got any of that ultraviolet spare—I think it could come in handy as a training aid if you know what I mean.” Sinclair laughed loudly then turned, leaned over and rummaged behind the bar before coming up with a large bag filled with a finely grained powder. 

“You're not gonna keep him stoned are you? Like I said, we don't know what the long-term effects are on full humans—it might finish him off.”

“Nah, not long term. Just wanna keep him docile for his acting début.”

“What do you have planned?” Curious but respectful—Spike liked that. He would definitely consider Sinclair as a handy demon to know in the future. Besides, there was no harm in sharing his plan.

“A little present for my Grand-sire—video evidence of how much I appreciate his gift.”

“And what better appreciation than showing how much his gift is enjoying his time?”

“Oh yes. I think seeing how happy the boy is will make things so much better, don't you?” The two demons shared a laugh as Spike handed over some folded bills and Sinclair gave him the bag of ultraviolet. With a final wave, Spike headed towards the rear entrance to the building. It was a cool crisp night, the moon full and bright in the sky. Taking a deep breath, enjoying how the cold air felt in his lungs, he strode over to his de Soto, pleased to see that the lads had managed to get the crate into the back seat. It might not be the most comfortable way of travelling, but the boy would be safe. He looked through the bars that were at the front of the crate, a warm sense of possession and satisfaction filling him at seeing the boy still out of it, dried come peeling off of his chest. Oh he was most suitably marked but by the end of the night there would no doubt be much more evidence that he was owned by a demon. 

A quick tip to Cris to share with the others and Spike was on his way. Yeah, Sunnydale might not agree with him but he was leaving with **very** happy memories of Oxnard.


End file.
